Records
by prolixdreams
Summary: Inspired by the following SPN imagine on tumblr: "You're a demon and Crowley decides to take you personally under his wing, he's very pleased with your progress, you being able to make close to a hundred deals a week."


It's the hallways - you'd realized it maybe fifty-odd years ago. They're all the same. Not just the same length, the same wall color, the same arrangement of doors, but it goes deeper than that. The water stains on the ceiling are the same shape and shade, the dust in the corners, the flourescents that flicker at the worst imaginable frequency, every minute detail is exactly the same.

There's not a locked door in the whole realm, there doesn't need to be.

In a human life that feels more and more like the remnants of distant dream with every passing hour, you remember thinking that Hell would be different.

There'd been a kernel of hope that you wouldn't go there at all, a faint idea that maybe making a deal like yours would be seen as a selfless act and you'd slip through Hell's grasp, but no such luck.

When you look back on it now, it's like watching a different person, and it's easier to see that maybe it wasn't so selfless after all. You had your reasons, your dark places that smiled when the deal was done.

You lean back against a wall near the end of the endless corridor and let yourself sink to the ground. Once upon a time you'd thought you were hungry, thirsty, tired, but it's all faded now. The last time you passed the darkened window in one of the balsa-wood office doors, you'd gotten a glimpse of yourself, more specifically your eyes.

Black as coal.

When you touch the wall, you can feel something ebbing and flowing inside, like a river of power just out of your reach. You close your eyes and put out shadowy feelers beyond the edges of your skin and try to get a stronger sense of it, where it's going, if you could use it to get out of here. You've touched this wall (or one like it) a thousand times, and this is the first time you've felt this, making something in your heart twist with a hesitant hope.

"That's how it works, darling." The rumbling tenor takes you by surprise.

Your eyes flip open. You haven't seen another creature since you arrived, and you can only imagine that the look you fix this stranger with must be closer to something feral than something human. You are tempted to growl, but bite it back. Something about the face behind his face is a heavy warning.

He extends a hand. You examine it as if it might burst into flame at any moment, but ultimately take it.

"You can only feel it once you've gone mad. Once you belong. The power that fuels the world below. Follow it back to its source, and..." He trails off, pulling you to your feet.

"I get out?" Your voice crackles from disuse.

"You get out." He answers.

"And what are you, the welcome committee? 'Cause if so you're a decade or two too-"

"Try King." He says with a little arch of a brow.

Well now you just feel like an idiot. "Are you here for me?"

"If I happen to be on my way from point A to point B and something's lounging rudely in my hall, that thing would be awfully full of itself to imagine it was the cause of my errand." He scolds impassively. "You want my attention... Here's a hint. Head that way. Test your skills, snag some souls, etcetera."

You turn to look in the direction he's pointing, and when you look back again, he's gone.

Something smells different now, though - cold air and ozone penetrate through the omnipresent musk of sulfur, and you need only look at the walls to feel the power like you're standing ankle-deep in a stream. That way indeed.

The idea of a challenge sends a thrill like a static shock through you.

* * *

"Are you sure?" You smirk, circling like a hungry shark about the young woman at the crossroads. "I mean, really, really sure?"

She takes a few quick breaths and closes her eyes. "I just want her to love me again, the way she once did. You don't know what it's been like, she spendslong hours at work, she won't kiss me, she's always tired... I miss the way things used to be, can't you understand?"

You slip your hands into your pockets, and when you blink, your eyes aren't black anymore - they're human, soft, warm. You move to stand next to her, place a comforting hand on her upper back.

"I can, of course." You say. "But your soul... there's so much more you could get for it than the affections of one unfaithful woman."

With your hand on her back, you can feel her stiffen. "What?"

"What what?"

"Unfaithful. You said... unfaithful."

"Oh yes." You nod somberly. "You've got a dead bedroom because she's got someone else, I'm afraid. His name is... Micheal, I think? No, not Michael, sounds kind of like..."

"Mikhail." The woman says icily, letting her curls fall in front of the round shape of her face. "That sneaky little-"

"Right?" You agree. "Cheating on you, with a man no less, and not even a good-looking one! You have to wonder how he talked her into it, I mean, I'm a demon, even I've got to be jealous of-"

You don't have to finish. She's not listening. "I cant believe him. And her! What a crock!" Her anger flares.

You warm yourself in its light. Just as planned. "So, about that deal."

"Demon. I want to change the deal. I want a new deal."

"Oh?" You've stepped away by now and begun examining your fingernails.

"I want them dead." Her voice has dropped to a sultry rasp.

The ghost of a smile quirks its way across your lips.

The woman adds, "Not nicely, either."

"You're sure, now?"

"Yes, yes, come on now." She is full of fire and haste.

One step, that's all it takes before you're deep into her her personal space, pressing your lips against hers and feeling the rush of power that always comes with a sealed deal. Somewhere in the void, an infinite well of darkness opens itself to you and in it you are submerged.

By the time she opens her eyes, you're gone - not a true teleport, you're not close to that level yet, just a parlor trick that lands you far enough to be impressive.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up when you hear a slow, sharp clap.

clap.

clap.

"Three for one. Very impressive." His drawl is like something dragged across hot sand.

"You again." You say. "Come to mock me some more?" You're getting tired of it. It's as if your King is stalking you personally, though you imagine he must do this to everyone, micromanaging, nitpicking, he's always got something to say. You should have said this, you should have done that, blah blah blah, you don't think you've ever met anyone, human or demon, who loved the sound of his own voice the way Crowley does.

Still, it's not such a bad voice. If you could only tune out the words, you might enjoy listening to it, and the way the line of his mouth tweaks up at the corner when he recalls a particularly good trick on his part in one of his little lessons, making little creases by his eyes does kind of infect you with a smile at times.

And the lessons have paid off.

"Actually," Crowley hedges, "I'm not sure I've got anything in particular to say. I didn't lie, you know." He saunters closer, until the distance between you is tiny, and charged.

"About what?" You challenge. He won't mess with you. At the rate you're going you're practically keeping the place in business, so you can afford to get a little cocky.

"Impressive." He repeats. He glances down at his phone and what appears to be a soul-tracking app?! "That makes ninety-two since Monday."

"If you're not here to be a dick, what are you here to say?"

"That you're closing in." He teases.

You don't give him the satisfaction of the question, on what, you simply arch your brows until he answers.

He finishes, "...On my record. Seven days, ninety-nine deals."

Oh.

Something inside you does a little flip at that. Praise and acclaim motivates you more than money or power, it was true when you were human and it's true now. Closing in on the record of the King, his approval for once, you can feel deep cracks in the wall of sassiness you've kept between you.

He leans in closer, and the glow from the moon and the streetlights fills his eyes with browns and greens. "In light of that fact, I thought I might inform you about what happens, should you go on to break said record." His voice is low and full of smoke, so close you can smell whiskey and old books and something else, something uniquely Crowley.

You don't speak, you almost forget to, heat curling low in your belly.

His whiskered lips are practically brushing your ear when he murmurs, "I'll show you where a King sleeps."

You're not going to break his record. You're going to destroy it.


End file.
